


Decade of Crimson

by LightningQuartz



Series: Finding Shouyou [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Castration, Depression, Gore, Murder, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-05-04 19:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14600178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningQuartz/pseuds/LightningQuartz
Summary: A novel has been delivered to everyone that was important to the death of Hinata Shouyou. Only, nobody knows who wrote it.Sequel to Finding Shouyou





	1. Kuuro Tetsurou

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, nice to see you again.  
> This is the sequel to Finding Shouyou, if you haven't read it, this probably won't make much sense, but I guess if you're into that, I can't really stop you from reading it.

** Chapter One **

_Click._

This was good.

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

Truly wonderful.

  _Click._

_Click._

Tetsurou pulled away from the object of his profession, very eager to see this sight without a lens. He loved his job. His objective for the week was rare birds across the Kanto region, not difficult nor time-consuming, but allowed him to view many beautiful sights, one of the few perks of a career in photography.

His current subject was fiery red with a black beak, almost like a manga character turned bird, truly beautiful against the bland, budless trees. Spring was _supposed_ to arrive weeks ago, but instead, here he was, tugging the thin material of his gloves further along his hands to avoid shaking, and consequently blurring his material. Dinner would not pay for itself, after all.

After cataloguing exactly sixteen rare species, though, he wondered, if they were _that_ easy to find and photograph, then were they truly rare at all? Were they even worth the six figures that he’d been promised? Worth being put on the second most popular travel magazine in Japan? Tetsurou did not have an answer, nor did he wish to question to generosity of the _second_ best travel magazine’s decisions on what was deemed worthy of putting in aforementioned travel magazine. Japan’s _second_ best travel magazine. Not that he was complaining about _only_ being sought out by the _second best travel magazine in Japan._

“Only…” Tetsurou chuckled without humor, rubbing numb fingers over his equally numb nose, his scars always hurt in the cold and he was started to develop a migraine from this endless winter. The chill made getting home awful, the outside too chilly, the underground even worse, but the train was a mix of both eternal burning and bone-chilling frost. All these years in Japan, he still couldn’t figure out how a train managed to be both too hot and too cold at the same time. It’s not as though he hadn’t given it enough thought by now.

As always, he stopped by the convenient store, conveniently half a block away from his dwelling, and never particularly crowded. Even if it were to happen, which was only twice, maybe three times, if his memory serves him correctly. Each of those incidents in which he had needed to wait more than five minutes to reach the register had been both humorous and embarrassing. Summer heat tended to draw the elderly, particularly old ladies, from their homes and directly into proximity of one, Kuuro Tetsurou. How he missed the heat, the sun beaming down upon him, allowing him the ever wonderful gift of wearing short sleeved shirts, and dare he say, shorts. Tetsurou scoffs at the prospect.

He really misses summer.

Nevertheless, as always, he stops at the convenient store, the one closest to his home, or he assumes it to be, though he’s never really done the math. His _preferred_ convenient store, then. He settles his own debate with a smirk, then steps inside of his preferred convenient store with the intention of picking up dinner, as he always does.

Being rather low on funds, until he uploads all of these pictures, labels them, writes an article that may go something like the following, in his head, at least.

_“Japan is the home” scratch that, “Japan has—“ No. “The flora and fauna of Japan share a dichotomy unlike anywhere else in the world, it is both in harmony and discord with that of the culture that represents its people.” Purr~fect._

He almost pats himself on the back, almost, but decides to wait until later, until he’s home, at least.

Tetsurou makes his way to the other end of the store and begins to stare down all his options, all of them wrapped in plastic and all of them less than 500 yen. A most perfect price for someone with just below 500 yen in his wallet.

250 yen and some extracted pleasantries later, Tetsurou exits his preferred convenient store with a plastic bag, inside said plastic bag is what he calls dinner, but has colloquially named Udon with vegetables, a bottle of green tea, a napkin, and a receipt for his dinner. All in all, a successful purchase and outing, but he’s drained and is rather tempted to eat and then rest, but, work beckons. Six figures do not miraculously deliver themselves to the unworthy, though, if Tetsurou were being honest, which he often is, he’d definitely give himself the title of: Worthy.

Unfortunately, work remains and it will be done. _Before_ he sleeps.

The heat of his apartment almost makes him reconsider. Almost.

_Rebooting._

He most definitely did almost fall asleep while taking his shoes off, nor did he rest his head on the counter top once he was seated in front his meal.

The udon was, unsurprisingly, filling but lackluster. At least he got some vegetables inside of his decaying body, though. The green tea, also a _preferred_ preference of his, was, as always, a very decent way to wash down an unforgettable meal, thank goodness.

Tetsurou disposed of the trash his meal had surmised, and by disposed, he, ever so gently, placed the udon container and the now empty green tea bottle back into the plastic bag they had come from, and left it on the counter.

_A mess for morning me, as payback for being responsible._

His logic: infallible.

His stride: confident.

Tetsurou whirled around, setting forth towards his desired destination of his work desk/dining table, both of which –though they were the same piece of furniture – were covered in mail, beer cans, and most importantly, his laptop.

Unfortunately, Tetsurou did not make it to the laptop, nor could he completely cross the room, for he was so frozen in place by another auspicious item which was perched upon his dining table turned desk.

A book.

 _The_ book, he reminded himself, terrified down to his very core. The shivering of winter had been erased only to be replaced by something infinitely more terrifying: the past. His past, specifically. His past with none other than Hinata Shouyou.

_God._

Even thinking the name brought chills upon chills that crawled down his spine. A whirlwind of the past sprung itself upon him, and here, alone in his one-room apartment, he would find no solace in the distraction of others. He had only himself to blame, and he could do nothing but accept it.

That night, a rainy night, he recalled it so easily due how much it had ruined his life, despite what the events of what was to unfold because of it.

Tetsurou, along with Kenma, riding the train from Tokyo all the way to Miyagi. To protect Kenma’s rival turned… boyfriend. He hated that word, an awful description of what truly was.

 _What could have been,_ he thought grimly.

Kenma’s plan, for it truly was Kenma’s plan until Tetsurou had ruined it. They didn’t need all of their alley cats to protect one stupid, friend-stealing brat, he remembered that description he gave every moment of every day. How foolish he had been to miscalculate so widely.

Just the two of them, on the train. The train to Miyagi, specifically, to Karasuno territory, in which they would give Oikawa Tooru, who had _supposedly,_ Tetsurou also remembered this qualifier of what had transpired, how blind he’d truly been to the suffering of someone he… knew.

Kenma, the more nervous of the two, was shaking, not just from the chill that the rain brought.

“It’s just nerves.” Kenma said, in a very Kenma-like way. Tetsurou had laughed. A crack of thunder accompanied it, adding to the drama of the situation. He’d take care of Oikawa and maybe, hopefully, get Hinata out of the way, to make him cease from stealing his best friend. His greedy thoughts accompanied him all the way to the Miyagi train station.

Kenma texted Hinata.

Hinata texted back.

They’d meet in the forest, Kenma would wait behind, as to avoid any stray punches, Tetsurou’s orders or the entire mission was a no-go.

Kenma sighed, skulked around outside of a convenient store, Hinata’s preferred one, Tetsurou imagined. Kenma’s hood was up, and told Tetsurou, in detail, how terrified _Shouyou_ had been, how much hope he could feel as he watched the small boy clutch his cell phone in shaking hands. He really wish he didn’t know that.

Eventually, the scene, as always, unfolded behind Tetsurou’s eyes. His most frequent nightmare had only gained in quality and duration since that evening. Oikawa’s wild eyes are the most striking. They make him feel fear unlike any other. He may have foiled Kenma’s plan in such a way, but he couldn’t dare to imagine the chain of events that _would_ have happened if he’d brought even more people into that forest in Miyagi.

Lightning cracks, Oikawa moves. Fluid as ever, under the guise of night, it’s almost impossible for Tetsurou to see him. He sees the knife though, fluid, an arc of beautiful steel. Beautiful, yet aimed at his neck, intentions clear as day. Oikawa wanted to hurt him. He steps backwards, his knees buckling and trembling and Shouyou—Hinata… jumps in front of him.

He watches, petrified, to the things that Oikawa does to Hinata Shouyou with a knife. The period of time is infinite and short enough that Kenma isn’t worried until it is far, far too late.

The lunge that Hinata took for him, something that Oikawa had no doubt intended to kill him, Tetsurou, with brought out the most sickening of noises, though he had barely heard it over the rain and the sound of his pulse trying to deafen him.

Tetsurou sat down on the floor, unable to escape from reliving this and too weak to continue bearing his shoulders.

The silver of the blade, the only thing that was visible on Oikawa, besides his bloodthirsty eyes, was sunk into Hinata’s chest, no doubt fatal without immediate attention, unfortunately, the scrawny middle blocker only received the attentions of Oikawa and himself. Tetsurou couldn’t escape then, and he still can’t not even today.

His vision of the real world is starting to get black around the edges, but the rerun of Hinata getting cut up remained perfectly clear.

Oikawa wasted no time, Tetsurou wondered if he even cared that A. He, himself, was unharmed, aside from tripping on wet leaves and that B. He just stabbed the target of his affections and abuse.

Hinata gasped, blood glinting his teeth under what little moonlight there is. “Kuhh---“ He gasps, a mixture of groaning and screaming with a too hoarse voice. At the time, Tetsurou had been convinced, without a doubt that Hinata’s dying breaths would be for Kenma. He’d realized, only later, that Hinata had not only taken a knife for _him,_ but was urging him to abandon him. Tetsurou couldn’t. His legs were unresponsive to the panic flooding his brain.

Hinata did not die quickly. Oikawa made sure of that. The blade, artfully used, roamed all over Hinata’s body. Ridding his clothing and his manhood with simple strokes of his knife, Oikawa smiled. Hinata screamed. Tetsurou vomited then, and as well in real life every time he lived it. Hinata croaked and moaned, but eventually fell silent. He thought – _prayed –_ that he was dead, but tears continued to fall and they made eye contact. Something about staring into the eyes of someone who was about to die was the most terrifying and petrifying things he’d ever witnessed. He couldn’t look away, not then, and not now. This was his curse.

More and more cuts were made, Hinata was more river than man… human, at this point, his rivers were red and frequent. Tetsurou was not there when they stopped bleeding, but he was there to witness Oikawa performing his coup de grace, a simple slash to the throat, Hinata died choking on his own blood, too weak to stop the bleeding himself.

It didn’t end there.

Oikawa rolled Hinata over.

Tetsurou screamed.

Eventually, he caught Oikawa’s attention.

It was just the two of them now.

Oikawa was more terrifying now that the bloodlust and… actual lust had worn off.

“Kuuro-san.” Oikawa greeted, his first words since this eternity in hell had started. Tetsurou swallowed loudly, unable to respond. Oikawa smiled at him. “Cat got your tongue?” The other male taunted, as if they’d known each other for years and Tetsurou didn’t just watch the brutal murder of someone he’d… known.

“I’m not going to kill you.” Oikawa says, standing once more to draw his pants around his waist once more. “But I am going to play with you.” Tetsurou, finding himself a capable human being, finally managed to get his lower half working. He tried to run, but one did not simply get Best Setter award for running at an average pace.

Oikawa tackled him, pinning him to the ground with strength of someone who could easily snap his neck. He almost wished that Oikawa had.

Fortunately, when it _him_ being cut up, he didn’t have to watch it. Didn’t even have to keep his eyes open as Oikawa slashed and slashed and slashed, over and over. Tetsurou had repented, and when Oikawa was done with him, the setter left.

Unsure what to do, Tetsurou waited, and waited, and waited.

Kenma found him.

Kenma found Hinata, also.

He screamed, cried, and eventually helped him to his feet. Hinata forgotten, at least, for the time being.

The memory of watching Hinata get castrated, mutilated and raped was one he could never forget, but as an oath to the person who had saved his life. He never uttered a word of it anybody, save a few details to Kenma. He owed his friend that much.

How those recollections made its way to a novel, he has no idea.

Why he received a novel in the mail that depicts every moment of Hinata Shouyou’s life since he met Kenma was beyond him. Punishment was the only thing that made sense.

 _The Crimson Aegis._ His punishment for not trusting Kenma, his punishment for not being honest, his punishment for just… being a really shitty person.

He wanted to know who wrote the book, he wanted them to know how much of it was his fault, how _all of it_ was his fault.

Kuuro Tetsurou, currently employeed by Japan’s second best travel magazine, was the true cause of death for Hinata Shouyou.

 

Of course, none of that matters now. Not really, anyway; regardless of how often he relived that crimson moon over a decade ago.

Until the book arrived, that is.

 _It has to mean something._ He’s convinced of it.

No doubt Kenma has one as well, but Tetsurou can’t help but wonder who else received a copy. If Oikawa himself got one; if the monster himself faced his actions in a thick tome. He probably laughed, _the prick,_ and reveled in the ability to glance through every ounce of torture –both physical and psychological- that he’d caused Shouyou, save for that final encounter. That part of the story was only between him and Oikawa.

Fortunately, Oikawa hadn’t even looked in his direction after that fateful encounter. Didn’t even realize they’d shared the same court at nationals. Something changed in Tetsurou that day, sure, but for Oikawa, it was a metamorphosis. One born of blood and gore.

The obituary said as much, though it was riddled with untruth. Corrupted as much as Oikawa was, no doubt.

Tetsurou pushed the book further away from him, not quite tipping it off the edge of his eating area turned desk.

In its place, he picked up a newspaper, one turned smooth with age and folded in on itself at the corners. On the third to last page held the one, and only, obituary of Hinata Shouyou.

_Hinata Shouyou – 16_

_Brutally murdered in the woods near his home._

Tetsurou rolled his eyes. “Putting it lightly, of course.” He muttered, ever so casually, to his empty apartment.

_An aspiring volleyball player at Karasuno High School. A dedicated student and beloved brother of Hinata Natsu._

He hadn’t known Shouyou was a brother back then, he really wish he had.

_Police speculated that he was caught up in gang activity due to the characters carved into his chest._

Tetsurou rolled his eyes, as he always did upon reading the last part of Shouyou’s obituary. He was, after all these years, still incredibly bitter about the fact that this newspaper didn’t find a supposed gang killing worthy of more than a few sentences.

Clearly, Miyagi did not consider Shouyou part of their community; embarrassed at having a supposed _gang member_ in their midst.

Tetsurou knew that he, himself, was ignorant of _everything_ that encompassed Shouyou No-Family-Name, he knew, without doubt, that Shouyou was not only _not_ involved in gang activity, but that he was murdered by someone who was supposed to love him. Yet, it was _that_ person who was beloved by Miyagi, and just so happened to occupy the front page of the same newspaper.

Salt in the wounds if Tetsurou had ever witnessed it.

And if he was anything, it was a witness.

 

Tetsurou managed to put the mystery aside for another hour, all of which he spent making pretentious statements about the prospects of traveling to Japan, before he picked it back up. He was half way through and still had no clue as to who wrote it or, more importantly, why it was written. Besides that, the detail was astounding, as if Shouyou had written his life down as it happened. Though, he knew that that couldn’t be. With no note and no author to track, Tetsurou was left with nothing but to finish the novel.

Though, he didn’t end up with nothing, exactly. He knew there had to be more than one copy of this book. He knew that waiting ten years to act held some significance.

It had to mean something, it just had to.

“But what?” He was almost scared of the answer at this point.

Tetsurou rubbed his scars absentmindedly, they still ached, even though he had been indoors for hours now.

He knew, suddenly, what he _should_ do. Though, he supposed he’d known it for a long while, but was too frightened to actually consider the possibility of performing such an action.

He needed to talk to his childhood friend.

The one he, coincidentally, hadn’t spoken to in nearly a decade.

Not since he let Shouyou die.

He picked up his cell phone and also a picture, stared at it, then at the reflective blackness of his cell phone, and finally, back at the picture. Well worn, it was, without doubt, a prized possession. _Was,_ his brain corrected, harsh as ever when it came to Shouyou.

Between his fingers was Shouyou’s last, and perhaps only, attachment to his former family. Though, it was only Shouyou and his sister, Natsu, in the picture. Bundles of orange hair, goofy smiles, red cheeks and freckles.

As a photographer, Tetsurou ignored the blurred effect surrounding the faces, both of them twitching, no doubt, laughing freely in a way Tetsurou had never witnessed. He also ignored the pixilation from such outdated equipment, though, he supposed, not everyone was allowed to use a camera that had a six-figure price tag attached to it. It was a beautiful picture.

Tetsurou put his cell phone down on the table.

He was curious, but perhaps, not _that_ curious.

 _Tomorrow._ He promises. Just as he always does.

He’d call Kenma tomorrow, it wouldn’t be awkward. They’d catch up.

He’d ask about the book.

 _Tomorrow._ He swears.

 

 

 


	2. Sato

 

Hinata Sato would hardly consider herself a lucky person, but watching from the second to last row in a gymnasium, with said gymnasium’s temperature resembling a sauna moreso than an extension on a learning institution, with a pair of binoculars, as her daughter _finally_ received her diploma, she couldn’t help but feel like the luckiest person in the world.

It was magnificent, it was perfect, and her camera was bordering on melting. Did that stop her from snapping hundreds of more pictures? Not in the slightest. The heat, if nothing, motivated more than it abated her enthusiasm.

Her daughter seemed to feel the same way, jumping around in her school uniform pointing out her ribbon to everyone in the room. Her smile – _oh god her smile—_ was infectious, lovely, perfectly befitting for a girl—a _woman!-_ on her graduation day. She couldn’t have been happier for her daughter, or herself, it seemed, as she too found herself grinning madly, even as sweat was pouring down her face, most likely soiling her makeup, not that she could put any particular thought into that, not even for a second. Today was her daughter’s day!

The excitement dulled after the ceremony official began, with speeches being delivered by, what seemed like, every employee the school has employed ever, since it was founded. It was… interesting, in that it was practically putting her to sleep. By the time a _student_ came up to the podium, she almost lost her composure and had to bite the inside of her lip to avoid screaming any profanities.

But of course, once her daughter stood up and approached the stage, hand already outstretched for her diploma, and smile withstanding all of the speeches her mother couldn’t, she couldn’t help but smile brightly as well, animosity for long, drawn out speeches forgotten.

Then the rest of the names.

So many students.

Surely there weren’t _this_ many when she was in high school.

Sato sighed, and waited.

Then her daughter began running over, the graduation _finally_ complete.

Her daughter, clearly unused to wearing something formal, shoes specifically, was tripping over herself, and nearly landed on her face by the time she arrived in her mother’s arms for a hug. Neither of them were embarrassed though, it would seem, her daughter snuggled closer, and closer still, despite Sato’s breasts _screaming_ for release. Eventually though, the hug did end, her boobs stopped aching, and her beautiful daughter was waving her diploma and begging to be taken out to somewhere _fancy._

Sato, of course, would oblige.

This was her daughter’s day, after all.

They went home, after that, to change into something more comfortable and more appropriate to a fancy eating establishment.

It also gave Sato time to think about the location of anything of the sort in Miyagi. They’d have to drive somewhere, surely. She was fine with that, even more time to spend with her daughter, who was grinning goofily even when they had to walk home because the bus was full.

Sato smiled too, though not as maniacally as her daughter had throughout the entire day so far, she just hoped the child ­– _woman-_ wouldn’t creep out any of the wait staff during their _fancy_ outing.

“Now…” Sato said, staring into the rather barren abyss that was her wardrobe. “What to wear?” She was not one for fancy outings, her upbringing hadn’t afforded her many opportunities to culture herself on fancy dining establishments, their location, nor what one would wear to such a place. An unfortunate situation, but as always, a Hinata makes due with what they have.

Long sleeves seemed like an easy enough choice, but decided between pink or purple was a burden in itself. Purple would be too presumptious, she wasn’t royalty, just celebrating the day with her daughter; and the pink, though of the same design and material as the purple one, identical in all but color, held something _deeper._ It felt fancy, but also made her feel incredibly exposed, despite evidence, in the form of her bedroom mirror, proving otherwise.

“Aha!” She exclaimed, pulling out, yet another top, again, identical in all but color to the previous two – they were having sale, sue her- but this one was _black._ Surely that spoke mountains about how formal she was! Without further thought, she stripped herself of the pink shirt and replaced it with the black one and began buttoning.

Now came the difficult part. She was wearing a black top, which was fine, except all of her pants, save her work pants, were all blue, and so happened to made of denim. Truly a terrible, terrible mistake on her. Completely confused, and out of her league as far as what denim, _if_ denim, constituted as acceptable in a fancy establishment, she pulled a pair on at random, as well as some socks, all of which were black as well.

The shoes were, fortunately, very simple. Sato, as a make-doer, owned one pair of shoes for formal events, and they were black, but heeled. She’d never worn them before, save for the one time five minutes before she bought them at the same sale as most of her wardrobe.

She tugged them on. Then tugged them right back off, hissing. She didn’t remember them being that tight in the store, those many, many years ago. Sighing, and taking a step back, Sato took off her socks and slid her feet back into the cursed pair of shoes. It was, unfortunately, an exact fit. Her feet were going to get very sweaty _and_ there was no barrier preventing that sweat from sinking into the shoes. She cursed the shoes once more, then rushed over to her bathroom and began brushing with passion. Her hair, despite being straight, a normality for all but a few of the Hinata clan, her daughter being an exception, was being very, _very_ uncooperative.

Taking a moment, she put a lid on any possible screams or any other loud noises that she may or may feel the need to emit as a consequence of her next action. Then, with all of her force, she tugged straight down with the brush, the clump was ripped from her scalp in the most painful way possible and was currently clogging the bristles on her brush. But at least her hair looked nice. With that, and a spritz of perfume that has seen more use for her daughter than her, despite Sato being the one to purchase it, she was finally ready for their outing.

Sato was about to scream for her daughter when she walked into the living room, only to find said daughter already leaning against the wall by the door, dressed in an entirely new outfit, but, much to Sato’s dismay, one of equal inappropriateness for the fancy outing her daughter had asked for. Surely a pink hoodie, pink skirt, and pink shoes weren’t the new fancy. She thought about changing, maybe her first instinct was right, that pink was fancy…

Instead, she took another step forward, grabbed her purse and keys from the living room table and approached her daughter, grin slipping back into place. “Ready to go?” Her daughter jumped, either not expected her or from Sato reigniting her excitement. Her daughter nodded, “Yup!” Chirped in addition as the door to their home was swung open.

They didn’t talk on the way to the car, and it was only a few minutes after they, well, she, started to drive, aimlessly seeking a fancy restaurant, before she spoke. “Have you heard back from any universities yet?” Sato knew that universities would have contacted her or her daughter sooner regarding furthering her daughter’s education, but small talk was not her specialty and the wibble-wobble on the radio was not helping her concentration. Her daughter shrugged, looking for the first time that day, dejected.

“Just one.” She murmured.

Sato almost scoffed, one was new, as opposed to last week’s zero.

“Is there something wrong with that one?” She asked, ever the concerned mother, especially today.

Her daughter, again, shrugged, but remained tight-lipped about the subject.

Sato kept driving in the almost quiet, the radio only a series of sounds compared to the ocean of doubt that was causing a storm in her mind. _What, exactly, did just one mean? Sure, it wasn’t the one, but she needs to be thinking about the future…_ She almost scoffed to herself, despite her daugher’s status as a young woman, she was still just a child, one that couldn’t think about the future without everything going just her way. Sato had been the same way, and her mother mostly likely, and her mother’s mother. _She’ll understand, in time._

It took nearly three hours of driving before a restaurant appeared that looked anything close to fancy. Just on the outskirts of Tokyo, fortunately, they didn’t have to drive in the city to find something suitable. Sato parked, or rather, wedged her vehicle on a slice of unmarked curb and called it a day. She cursed the cramped nature of Tokyo only for a moment before gathering her thoughts, her purse, and her daughter and headed towards the fancy glass walls of their destination.

The hostess was plain looking enough, with a black shirt… and denim pants… Only when this plain looking woman step out from behind her podium with menus firmly in hand did Sato get a glimpse at her shoes. The hostess, and the wait staff, she noticed after looking around for a moment, was wearing the same outfit as she was, or, she supposed, _she_ was wearing the same outfit as _them._ Never had she been more mortified in her entire life, and pledged, henceforth, to never step into…

“Welcome to Narisawa!”

Never step into Narisawa ever again.

Sato bowed.

The hostess was staring at her when she came back up.

Sato swallowed.

“Let me show you to your table.”

Their table was decked in leather and she, much to her embarrassment and Natsu’s delight, _squeaked_ as she slid into one of the comfortable booths.

“Your waiter will be with your shortly.” Said the hostess before being whisked away by another clump of customers that had entered sometime after they had.

She turned to her daughter, “So?” She asked, smile building on her face, she really wished she’d brought her camera.

“So?” Natsu parroted, orange hair twirling about a finger; Sato could make out the distinct sound of Natsu’s feet pounding against the bottom of the booth.

“How does it feel? Graduating, I mean.”

Natsu shrugged, “It feels okay, took longer than I thought it would.” She muttered bitterly.

Sato laughed, about to barrel another question when they were suddenly cast in shadow by their waiter. The man, barely so, much like her Natsu, bowed to them kindly before whipping out two thick folders. The folders, obviously, turned out to be menus, though she’d never expected the amount of variety, nor did she expect to find _five digit specials._ It was, to say the least, overwhelming.

“I-I’ll have a glass of uh,” She flipped quickly through the menu until she found drinks, only to find out she couldn’t pronounce anything that had alcohol in it, and she _refused_ to point at the menu like a child.

“Red… wine.” She grit out, thoroughly embarrassed for the third time since entering the establishment. Fine dining was so out of her comfort zone.

The waiter looked at her with confusion, then pity, then smiled at her. “Got’cha!” He chirped informally, surely an attempt at making them more comfortable.

“And for you, miss?” The man said, turning his head to Natsu.

“Uh…” Her daughter replied, elegant as a high school graduate could be. “Water, please.”

The man scribbled it down on a notepad he had somehow conjured, and sped off. “I’ll be back to take your order in a minute!” He shouted from several tables away.

Sato let out a sigh, relieved.

Natsu, for the first time in forever, seemed to perk up.

“This place fancy enough for you, _miss?_ ” Sato teased causing Natsu to giggle quietly, a truly serene sound.

“Why yes, _old lady,_ I suppose it will do.” Came the witty reply, the brat lacing her words in some pretentious accent.

They both laughed.

Soon, their waiter returned with alcohol and water.

Sato inhaled the glass in one gulp, trying to convince herself that nine-hundred yen for a _half_ glass of wine wasn’t a crime. She ordered another one, she’d be fine to drive later.

Natsu ended up ordering chicken katsu, something they could have made at home. Deciding to take a risk, Sato ordered the same thing.

“So, about this college.” Sato tried after the alcohol loosened her up a little.

Natsu tensed, “W-what about it?”

“Do you want to go?”

It had been, understandably, a sore spot for both of them. Trying to find an affordable education while Natsu focused on what schools didn’t look ugly.

“I think so… yeah.” Came the tentative reply.

Sato nodded, “I think it’ll be good for you, getting away from this place…” Though she was sincere in her statement, her heart couldn’t help but clench painfully at the thought of being left alone.

Their food came and went in a flurry of scraping spoons. They definitely drew some looks.

Natsu begged for dessert. Not a single one lower than four digits, she could feel her wallet screaming in terror, but she agreed; and then ordered something for herself as well.

It was her daughter’s day, after all.

They giggled over ice cream and chocolate.

When it came time to pay, Sato didn’t feel like laughing anymore. Dutifully though, she handed over the bills, feeling a little robbed, but completely satisfied that her daughter had decided to warm up.

She drove them home.

Natsu picked the songs on the radio.

It was her daughter’s day, after all.

Until it wasn’t.

Until…

Until Natsu decided she was old enough to ask the wrong questions.

“Mama…” Natsu asked once they’d entered their home, her daughter, now a woman, was trembling in the living room. She had been staring at the ground when she said it, but Sato could hear the tension, the tears, in her daugher’s voice.

“Can you tell me what happened to Shouyou?”

Sato had found peace in the death of her nephew, her daughter’s brother. She found peace in the fact that she would never, _ever_ talk about it again. She hated that she felt that way, hated that her brother’s son had…

Her heart stopped, frozen over and chilled in the silence their home provided. She hated it.

“I thought you didn’t remember Shouyou?” Sato asked, trying vainly to hold over this shredded illusion, to tug comfort back into her life.

“Shouyou… my brother…” Natsu blubbered, now sobbing completely, still shaking a leaf, so much so that she collapsed to the ground.

Natsu’s head twitched, then again, and again, like a cog turning until finally she was looking right at her, _through_ her. Natsu had Shouyou’s eyes.

Sato broke too.

All at once, years of forgetting and trampling over any emotion, any _memory_ , involving Shouyou, her nephew, had crumbled. The avalanche was overwhelming.

“He…” She started once she’d managed to catch her breath; her mind wandered drunkenly to her most secret possession. The book had been a mystery, dropped off like someone had just shoved it in with the rest of the mail. She almost threw it away with how out of place it looked. Until she opened it.

_Hinata Shouyou…_

The book, from beginning to end, described the tragedy of a boy’s life. She sped through it, considered setting the damn thing on fire, but… she kept it. How could she waste a gift like the one she’d been given?

Shouyou had been given back to her, just a slice, but it was better than nothing.

“He was killed… by someone he loved very much.” Shouyou, as he did with everything, threw himself into something wholeheartedly, even his destructive relationship with Oikawa Tooru.

She couldn’t find it in her to give the book to Natsu, to have her daughter _know,_ to experience herself, all the horrible things that Shouyou had lived through.

“Who was it?” Came the response, one she dreaded.

“His boyfriend at the time…” She replied without thinking.

“I miss him…”

Sato ran to her bedroom and slammed the door.

She missed him too.

She was missing too many people in her life.

Their parents… her brother… her nephew.

Everyone was moving further and further out of reach.

They didn't speak after Natsu's confession, her daughter packed, ready to be away from home. Sato sulked, wishing she'd stay but couldn't look into Shouyou's eyes for another second. 

Finally, against her will, the day had arrived. 

Moments before her daughter was scheduled to leave Sato ran into her bedroom again, she slid her hand under her mattress and pulled out a thick book. She hoped, more than anything, that she wouldn't regret this.

Before Natsu could slam the door on their home, and their relationship, Sato intercepted her. 

She shoved the thing into her daugher's grip. 

"Shouyou loved you more than anything, Natsu. I shouldn't have kept this from you." 

Natsu stared at the object in her hands, then at her before launching herself. 

The warmth of her daughter was something that she had missed, and will continue to miss.

"You'll miss the train." She said, not loosening her own grip for a long moment.

Once again, another brat with orange hair had weaved itself into her heart, and once again, they left her alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for an update.


	3. Koutarou

Koutarou was tired.

Not that he’d let as such show on his face, not in front of Kazumi, and _definitely_ not in front of his son; he was mortified even thinking about how his child would react, his wife, not so much, though he was equally as mortified that he’d become so… complacent. It was hard, not living up to the legacy that had been passed down onto him.

Here, though, he felt no such remorse, he had no walls to keep up. He could just exist, be himself, the frowning young adult that he is.

The alcohol helped loosen him up as well, despite the taste.

His office turned _mancave_ was one of his few escapes, but held more significance than anything else. The walls were covered in posters and trophies from his youth, as well as his degree in Sports Science. His jersey, the bold white _4_ showcasing his position and title, his _previous_ position and title, was encased against the far wall; pretty much the only thing that separated the current room from being a complete copy of his high school bedroom was the lack of bed, though the couch did pull out.

Still, each time he escaped into his enclave, he couldn’t shake the guilt that followed him. He _should_ be spending time with his wife and child, instead, he was on the couch in his office, with his head in his hands and alcohol on his tongue.

He was a really shitty father, and an ace, and a captain, and a friend… Koutarou was a shitty person in general.

He continued to mope for well over an hour before he forced his legs into standing and strode to the other end of the room, barely three steps until he was at the other end. Koutarou extended his arm, hand hesitating over one of the few books that resided in his bookshelf, it was also the most recent addition, and was just as prized as anything else in the room.

He fingered the golden lettering, admiring the delicate artistry for a moment before tucking it under his arm for the short journey back to the couch.

The pages split open where his bookmark had resided, only a portion of the way through the massive number of pages.

Koutarou began reading, consuming the words and experiences as if they were his own. It was refreshing, having his focus completely ensnared into a single task, something he hadn’t been able to do since he’d graduated college, a shame really. He flicked through page after page slowly, admiring the penmanship, trying to picture each moment inside of his head as much as his psyche tried to push such scenes away. Eventually, the room grew darker and his eyes were straining with the lack of light; and instead of rectifying the problem with a flick of the switch, he simply stored his bookmark into the last page he’d read and closed the book. He’d continue more the next time he had the chance. He stood, ignoring the tingling in his legs from being immobile for so long and crossed the room once again to tuck the book back into its spot.

There was a knock at the door, a small one, indicating their identiy without further sound. Koutarou smiled, “Who is it?” He called back playfully.

“It’s me!” A high pitched voice called back, followed by a fit of giggles.

“Me, huh? I don’t remember any Me’s living here…” He pondered, tapping his chin in thought despite the fact that the person on the other side of the door couldn’t see him,

“Daddy!” The voice whined in rebuttal.

Koutarou silently wandered towards the door and before the knocker could react, he threw it open and snatched them up! His actions caused a shrill scream, but it had no effect on him, instead he shook the little body back and forth using all of his strength to make the intruder dizzy.

“Daddy!” The voice screeched, “Put me down!” Koutarou did not, instead he shook harder, and spun faster, a dangerous move to perform in the hallway of their home, but a risk he was willing to take.

Eventually though, he did put his son down, but not before claiming a few kisses on his now red cheeks, making sure to rub his stubbly face all over his son’s, causing an uproar in laughter from the child.

“Let’s get ready for bed.” He suggested, though firmly enough that there was little room for question.

His son nodded, fluffy black hair wobbling all over the place. Koutarou ruffled it, making a further mess of it before guiding his son to the bathroom.

They peed, washed their hands, brushed their teeth and washed their faces in less than fifteen minutes, truly a record to behold.

Finally, it was time for the best part of the night.

“Read this one!” His son commanded, colorful book outstretched, and who was Koutarou to object to such a nice young man?

He read, made voices, gave kisses and half an hour later, his son was passed out in his bed. He decided to head that way too.

Kazumi was already in the bedroom when he arrived, she glanced at him when he entered, but buried her face inside of her laptop just as quickly.

He sighed.

Koutarou slipped off his glasses, shut off the lamp on his side of the bed, and promptly fell asleep, ignoring the iciness that the room held.

He woke up feeling exhausted, and that remained the case as he dressed himself and stumbled out of the bedroom.

Downstairs, he fixed rice and natto for the three of them despite him being the only one awake. He read the news on his phone, skipping past all the political drabble and skipping straight to the last section.

**_Newcomer Joins the Professional Volleyball Circuit_ **

That piqued his interest more than anything else the page had to offer.

“A newbie…” He muttered, reading aloud as well as in his head as he scanned the pixelated text, “blah blah blah… scouted for the national team.”

That was interesting, newbies almost _never_ got onto the national team.

“Good for him…” He muttered anyway, not that the guy could hear him, even if he yelled, they didn’t even include a name, just a picture that, now that he was examining it, looked kind of… _familiar._ Unfortunately, he did not time to focus on such things, it was time to wake up the house.

First, he went to his son’s room, not even bothering to knock knowing that it wouldn’t do anything; instead, he walked up to the child sized bed and firmly gripped either side of the mattress before shaking the thing with all of his strength. An unorthodox method, surely, but one that garnered results without fail.

His mission was complete _not_ when he heard the faint growling of an adolescent, but when he finally got a verbal greeting, a mistake he had made far too many times in the past couple years.

“Morning daddy…” The brat groaned, rubbing at his eyes.

“Morning Shouyou!” Koutarou chirped back, plucking his son up by his sides, he helped the boy get into his uniform before carrying him into the bathroom. As they did every morning and night, they peed, washed their hands, brushed their teeth, and washed their face. Koutarou carried his son down the stairs, being mindful of his son’s dangling head and sat him in front of a plate of steaming rice and natto. Once the boy had begun eating, he turned around and headed back upstairs once again, this time going into his own bedroom to wake up Kazumi.

She whined.

She groaned.

She slapped and clawed at him.

However, he was nothing if not persistent, and eventually his wife awakened, glaring at him through icy blue eyes. In this moment, she did not live up to her name, but Koutarou just petted her hair instead.

“You’re gonna be late again…” He commented at the figure under the blanket.

“Come on, get up…” He tried, only for a hand to slap at him again.

He sighed, and left. His duty was complete, at least.

Shouyou was waiting downstairs, fully awake and smiling. Koutarou smiled back at his son.

“Ready for school?” He asked, handing over the boy’s backpack.

Shouyou chirped, “Yup!” Before running over to him. “Are you ready for working?” Was asked in return, as it was every morning.

He laughed, tugging the handle on his briefcase, “Yup!” He answered, doing his best to mimic his son’s voice, as he did every morning.

They walked outside together, admired the feeling of warmth the late morning was giving them, and walked in sync outside of the gate that surrounded their yard. Sure enough, as was the case every morning, there was a black car waiting for the two of them.

Koutarou helped his son into the back, making sure he was buckled in and smiling before taking the front seat for himself.

“Good morning.” He finally said to the other passenger, who was dressed sharply, as he was every morning.

“Good morning, Koutarou-san.” Was replied in a deep voice before the car was set into motion.

“And how was your night, Keiji?” Koutarou asked once they had reached a stop sign. The driver turned to him then, dark blue eyes examining him as they always did. Koutarou did his own examining as well.

“Boring, as I’m sure you could have guessed.” Came the smooth reply. Koutarou chuckled, mood picking up in the presence of his friend.

The ride to Shouyou’s school was a quiet one, but nobody minded.

All of them exited the vehicle, and he and Keiji guided his son to his classroom, making sure he was content before they took their leave.

Only when they were back in in Keiji’s car did he let his grin fall into nothingness. His friend watched it happen, as he often did.

“Something wrong?” Keiji asked, hands ruffling his hair in an attempt to make it less messy, an endearing trait that the man had had since they’d met all those years ago.

He didn’t want to get into it, so he didn’t. Keiji didn’t seem to mind, never seemed to mind.

Finally, they arrived at their destination, which also happened to be the parking lot of their shared workplace, not a coincidence in the slightest, not that either of them would deny it.

They walked in together, greeted their boss together and he dropped Keiji off at his workstation, the receptionist desk, and he sauntered off down further until he reached his office.

Work that day was slower than usual, which, he supposed, should be a good thing, considering he helped rehabilitate injuries. He massaged, prescribed, treated and smiled until it was time to leave.

Keiji wasn’t at the receptionist desk when he was finally free from his shift, and he didn’t bother looking for the man. He took the train to the closest station to his home and walked the rest of the way until he was finally at his front door.

Shouyou jumped him as soon as the door was cracked open. If he were any less solid, he probably would have toppled over onto his back, but he’d managed to catch the boy midflight and spun him around a few times before initiating his parental protocols.

“Did you do your homework?” Shouyou looked towards the ground, away from him. Koutarou frowned deeply, “Shouyou?” He asked firmly.

“…No.” Came the hesitated reply.

Koutarou ran his fingers through his son’s hair for a moment, admiring the softness of it for a moment before smacking the boy on the butt, just not enough for it to sting, “Go get started on it, I’ll start dinner.”

The boy nodded, and quickly ran over to the living room table and began pulling things out of his backpack.

Koutarou glided past his son and into the kitchen, where he was greeted with a cup of coffee, still steaming, as well as a rather familiar looking breakfast plate.

“Koutarou-san.” Keiji greeted from the table, making his presence known, though he’d already noticed the man lingering there like a shadow.

“Are you staying for dinner?” He was quick to ask, one of the few events in his current life that was completely random. Keiji was squirrely like that, another trait he’d had since high school.

“…I suppose.” Was muttered loud enough for him to hear, though both of their attentions were on the plate that had been sitting on the table since he’d left that morning.

Sighing, he walked back into the living room, giving a long glance at his hardworking son before approaching the answering machine. The device was glowing red, indicating a message. With a press of his finger, the machine beeped ominously.

“ _Koutarou-san, this is Natsuko, your boss, in case you forgotten,”_ The recording spat, sounding like a very dangerous animal. A shiver sped up his back at the blatant animosity in the speaker’s voice, “ _I really hate to say this, Koutarou-san, but this is the fifth time this MONTH you haven’t shown up to work without notice. This kind of behavior is unacceptable in this company, and…”_ He deleted the recording before it could say anything else, he already gotten the gist of it. His wife was, not for the first time, fired from her job.

He walked back into the kitchen bristling and with a headache.

“Do you need some help preparing dinner, Koutarou?” The lack of formality in Keiji’s tone threw him for a loop and left him blinking stupidly for far longer than necessary.

“Uh…” He replied, now staring intently without blinking, “Sure, Keiji, that’d be great.” He threw a smirk at the man he’d come to know as his best friend.

“I wanna help too!” Came a call from the doorway, causing him to turn around to see Shouyou standing there, jogging in place as if he were preparing for an Olympic event.

Koutarou frowned at his son, “Didn’t I say to do your homework?”

His son looked up at him, brown eyes sparkling with mischief, “I already finished!” Shouyou proclaimed loudly, stomping one foot as if to prove it true. He raised a skeptical brow.

“May I see it?” He asked innocently enough.

Sure enough, though it took him longer than he would care to admit, Shouyou’s homework was complete with each answer being correct.

His son definitely deserved a treat for being such a genius!

“Let’s wash our hands then!” He cheered, lifting Shouyou up so he could reach the sink.

The three of them prepared a meal together, washing dishes along the way, including the breakfast plate of his wife’s uneaten meal.

They grilled fish, well, he grilled fish while Keiji spouted off useless information about vegetables to Shouyou, which kept the boy entertained while they prepared a meal around him. They let Shouyou pour the soup packets into the boiling water though, a very important step that the boy trusted to nobody else.

Soon enough, fish, soup, and chopped vegetables crowded the table.

“Is mommy gonna eat with us?” Shouyou asked, a small finger pointing towards Kazumi’s chair, directly to Koutarou’s left.

“Mommy said she isn’t hungry.” A lie, but even his parents lied to him growing up, just not about his mom being not hungry, it was still the same concept though, he was sure.

Shouyou took the answer well enough, and didn’t react when Keiji took Kazumi’s seat, the only other chair at the table, and began helping himself.

It would have been an awkward dinner if it weren’t for his son, who was questioning Keiji about every aspect of his life, which the man answered easily enough, giving Koutarou a little more insight to his best friend’s life, though most of the information he’d already been privy to, like his favorite color and animal.

Shouyou tired himself out quickly enough though, and decided he wanted to be put to bed, something children everywhere were gasping at, Koutarou was sure.

They performed their nightly ritual together, Koutarou inviting Keiji into his _office_ until Shouyou was asleep, to which the man agreed.

Together, they peed, washed their hands, brushed their teeth, washed their faces, Koutarou decided to shave his face and Shouyou watched intently.

He settled his son into bed, tucking him in tightly, and began to read where they had left off yesterday, though they’d barely gotten through a page before his son passed out.

Koutarou kissed his son’s forehead on the way out and closed the door.

Keiji was still loitering in his _office_ when he finally made his way into it.

“Drink?” He offered, knowing the other man hadn’t touched alcohol in his life. Predictably, Keiji declined.

It wasn’t until he had downed a suitably amount of alcohol before he noticed that his friend was reading a book, _the_ book.

He swallowed around nothing, feeling tense, like he needed to run all of a sudden.

“That’s…” He trailed off, not sure how to offer an explanation.

“It wasn’t in here the last time I was here, so…” Was Keiji’s explanation, which didn’t offer him any help in his own.

“It doesn’t have an author.” His friend said, now examining the leather cover and spine instead of the contents.

“Not to mention it’s about that boy.” Koutarou could feel his heart stop.

“How did you get this?” Keiji pressured, now looking at him with his dark blue stare, with intensity he hadn’t seen since they’d both played volleyball in high school.

Koutarou swallowed nothing but air, then decided he needed another drink.

“I always had a feeling, I mean, you named your son after him…” Keiji suggested, as if there was anything to suggest.

Koutarou remained dutifully silent until he had more alcohol in him, then he took the book and the space next to his best friend.

“I just… feel bad, for him, I mean, he had a lot of… _ambition,_ he wanted to be someone, be an _ace…”_ He tried, finding an ounce of courage somehow while still under Keiji’s stare.

“There’s a part about me in here…” He offered sometime later, interrupting their silent staring contest. “It’s not much, just me giving the kid a hug, and reading it makes me feel like I did something, like I _helped_ someone, Keiji…”

His best friend nods, but says nothing, just continues to look, to _stare_ at him.

“And _she_ reminded me of him, of that feeling I got, but… I don’t feel that anymore, I don’t feel like I’m helping anyone…”

Keiji swallowed loudly, a sign he was about to say something, “Kou…” The man whispered, nothing but husky air in the short distance between them. “You’re still an ace, still a captain, you still help people every day, and—!” Keiji stopped talking, but not on his own will.

Koutarou had shoved his lips against his best friend’s, effectively shutting him up, effectively resurfacing everything he’d ever felt in his entire life, effectively burning him from the inside out.

 _Thank you, Shouyou…_ He thought, as he finally let himself fall victim to the feelings he’d been repressing since he’d fallen in love with Akaashi Keiji.

 

 

 


	4. Sawamura Daichi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter about Daichi's healing process

Sawamura Daichi

The alarm clock beside his bed doesn’t wake him up, he’s instead jolted into alertness by a bolt of lightning that shatters his unconsciousness. Slowly, his chest uncurls itself and he’s able to rest his head back onto the pillow under him.

His eyes close, and he slows his breathing, yet his brain refuses to turn off, despite the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to get up for several more hours. Not at all if he didn’t want to.

The rain outside, crashing loudly onto his roof, as well as the plots of land that surrounded said roof, was doing his job for him. He could rest all day if he really wanted.

But he couldn’t, even if he should.

 _Good day for rain…_ His mind supplies, though he’s unsure if he thought it or said it into the empty room around him.

He rolls onto one shoulder.

Then the other.

Then sighs. Despite his sufficient rest—more than sufficient, his dad would say, if he were still here, the noise is riddled with exhaustion.

He finds himself reaching for his cell phone, just beyond the, now useless, alarm clock.

The screen, when he flicks it open, blinds him for a moment and he blinks rapidly until his eyes adjust to the sensation.

With no new messages, he decides to compose one of his own.

 **“You still coming today?”** Sends it to four people, the only ones that seem to matter these days.

A reply from one is almost instant, and a deep sadness rolls over him, **“Yup.”** It’s from Suga, who should, like any normal person, be sleeping. But he’s not, and Daichi hates why.

He doesn’t respond to the message; there’s nothing left to say at this point.

He stands, he pisses and shaves and brushes and grooms the receding line of his hair with the lights off and his eyes closed.

He’s tired.

The rain outside doesn’t help.

 _Good day for rain._ He thinks, again, as he pulls open the fridge and pulls out a canned coffee; black and bitter as his soul.

He wipes cream off of his lip with his tongue, then the residue off on his shirt, and stares out the kitchen window of his family home, wondering why it was raining in the dry season.

Two hours later, another reply comes, from Ennoshita, who’s waking up for work. **“I’ll be there. Food after?”**

 **“Sure.”** He responds, even though there would be food where they’re going, enough to bloat his stomach. It’d be nice to spend some time together, though.

Not bothering with actual breakfast, he drops the now empty can into the garbage, and sets about getting dressed.

Shorts and a t-shirt, and his last pair of boxers. He’d have to do laundry today.

Two hours pass before his phone chimed from the kitchen window. He stopped staring at the television screen and read the message. **“I’ll be there.”** He’s not sure when Tanaka had gotten so serious, even over text, but he supposes it doesn’t matter.

Today was a serious day.

Two hours pass, then another one, and when their meeting time comes, he checks his phone for the last time and finds himself without a fourth reply.

Daichi steps outside of the warmth of his home and into the chilling gale of what should have been a dry summer. His umbrella keeps him dry, aside from the gorge of puddles that are heavily accumulated at his feet, sinking past his shoes and well into his socks.

The other three are waiting outside when he finally makes it there, marking the third year in a row where he wasn’t the first one there. Not that he’s keeping track.

Nods go around, his gaze lingers on Suga’s longer than it should, taking in the bags under his eyes and the dryness of his lips, falling, more appropriately to his attire, to the crumpled version of a collared shirt and slacks. He almost laughs.

Even in tens of thousands worth of designer material, Koushi still looks like a kid raised in Miyagi.

Tanaka looks more _mature_ than the last time they’d seen each other, scruff coating both cheeks and his blond faded more into a light brown.

Ennoshita looks the same as he did in high school, well-groomed and somber. He smiles, still, but it’s painfully small.

“Shitty weather, huh?” Tanaka spouts out, running fingers over grizzled chin.

Daichi shrugs in return and Ennoshitta nods quietly.

“Shall we?” Suga beckons after the silence persists for another moment, he flings an arm back, gesturing to the glass door they’re all avoiding.

More nodding.

He leads them, though it’s been almost a decade since he’s been their captain; since he’s had the right to do so.

Ukai looks up when the door slams shut behind them. His hair, as ever, is bleached and tied back. His face wrinkles when he smiles at the group of them, “That day of the year, huh?” The remark pulls a laugh from each of them, though, judging from his look, he has a feeling that Ukai hasn’t forgotten what day it is.

“Five meat buns.” He says, to which Ukai echoes it back to him, tapping out on a register until the price comes up. He announces that to.

Daichi hands over a few bills and some coins. Ukai doesn’t count them, instead just jamming the money into the register and slamming it shut.

Five meat buns end up in a paper bag in front of him, and, when he grows to grab it, another item is placed onto the counter. A bouquet of flowers, red and orange.

“From my mother.” Ukai explains. “Doctor told her to get a hobby for her knees.”

Daichi nods, hands the bag to Tanaka and takes the flower for himself.

“See ya.” Ukai says, ending their conversation.

Daichi doesn’t know if he replies when he ends up outside, still staring at the flower gripped tightly in his fist.

“Ready?” He asks. Three heads nod somberly, and he leads them down the street, past Ukai’s store, and a number of houses before jumping over the stone wall that serves as a perimeter to the forest—a recent addition.

Their pace is slow. It gives him time to gaze around the forest, to appreciate the blood-orange leaves steadily turning isn’t a soggy carpet as the rain continuously pelts down through the forest’s overgrowth.

The four of them arrive at a small pond, and they each spread out from their single file line to stare into its abyss.

In front of the lake is a wooden cross. He’s not sure who made it, nobody he’s asked had admitted to doing so. He places the bouquet under it.

A meat bun finds itself on top of the cross, looking almost sacrilegious. One also finds itself into his hand, and he waits, like a child, until they’re all passed around before he begins eating.

It fills his stomach to the point where he considers throwing up.

He doesn’t, of course. Not in front of Shouyou.

None of them say anything, all their thoughts already ensnared in the forest somewhere after years of confessions.

Daichi prays though, closing his eyes and remembering. Remembering as fondly as he can, even when it hurts. He doesn’t remember a lot about Shouyou, and he barely knew the kid before that; he thinks that hurts more. How little of each other that they have.

Beyond the cross, the pond, surprisingly clear and surrounded by natural flowers, begins to overflow.

They take their leave before their shoes get wet.

His are already soaked.

Their group livens up when the step outside of the forest, nearly half an hour later.

Ennoshita offers to pay for their meal, and Daichi doesn’t say much as they cram into his small car.

They end up twenty minutes away, the rain tapers to a stop, and Ennoshite parks at a decrepit looking shack that Ennoshita insists is the ramen best in Miyagi. His thighs get splinters from the picnic bench they’re stationed at, but the meal is good. And free, so he doesn’t complain.

The four of them chat quietly, subtle bragging that is quickly laughed off, implications of love—or In Tanaka’s case, the _size of this one woman’s… bust._ Together, they make promises of things to be, revolving, almost entirely, about seeing each other before the next storm in front of Shouyou’s lake.

They won’t, of course, but the atmosphere is cheerful enough that he finds himself drowning in it; he laughs with them as they all pile into Ennoshita’s car.

The mood dies on their way back to a less remote portion of Miyagi. Through the filter of the midday sun, he takes in the faces of each of his high-school friends, letting them soak into his memory. When he lands on Suga—on Koushi, just beside him, he falters, like his heart is actually sinking.

It’s a weird feeling, and when Ennoshita drops him off in front of his family’s empty house, when he sinks into the mats on the floor in front of the TV, he still doesn’t have an answer.

He spends the rest of the day ignoring that feeling, and thinking about Shouyou, if he’d even see Suga at all, damn him for thinking this, if it weren’t for Shouyou’s death.

The rain stops sometime after the night falls, and the empty house feels all too constricting.

Daichi pulls on his shoes and marches down the street, over the stone wall that separates the forest from the small residential area. He trudges through the leaves, now purple under the moon’s beams, but no less squishy, and finally pauses in front of Shouyou’s gravestone.

He’s not buried here, of course, but the boy he’d known all those years ago feels present under the moon.

If he called out right now, he’s almost certain Shouyou would answer.

He’s too scared to find out.

Daichi prays once more, for real this time. Offering his apologizes while his knees sink into the mud in front of the tilting cross. The meat bun from earlier today is gone without a trace, just under the cross though, another flower is placed. A single white rose, long turned soggy and starting to brown from the mud just below it.

“I’m so sorry.”

When the sobbing stops, hours or minutes later, the paranoia starts to set in. The distinct feeling of being watched and the desire to run away from the fallen sanctuary to a more secure one.

His heart pounds in his ears as he dashes through the forest.

If it weren’t so loud, he’s pretty sure that he’d hear the panting and the squishing of shoes from someone just behind him.

The door slams shut behind him, but he doesn’t bother locking it before he’s throwing his shoes down and marching into the bathroom.

He retches violently a few times before anything comes up, chunks of ramen and beef splatter into the bowl until only bile comes out.

Daichi flushes the toilet and undresses, taking a shower and brushing his teeth before sinking into his futon. The dripping of the dying rain puts him to sleep.

He wakes up the next morning before the sun has risen by a harsh ringing that he turns off as soon as he gains control of his still asleep arm.

He dresses without underwear, he should really do laundry today, and heads outside and walks away from town, towards the fields.

The soil is still damp from the rain, but starting to crack near the top where the water has begun soaking into the ground.

With a sigh, he decides to water everything anyway. It shouldn’t take that long, considering how most of the plants are still damp, but still mostly asleep, he finds himself taking hours to water the entire plot, just for something to do.

The sun is high by the time he decides to call it a day, it’s warmth weighing down and making him sweat through his clothes.

He takes another shower once he’s inside, but doesn’t bother dressing outside of the towel. A canned coffee finds its way into his hand and he stares blankly at the wall across from him until the can is empty and he’s bored again.

The house is ringing and he blinks out of whatever daze he’s found himself in. He steps away from the kitchen counter, ignoring the painful tingling in his legs and walks into bedroom.

Beside his futon, his phone is ringing noisily, but stops when he approaches.

He doesn’t recognize the number, but doesn’t bother calling back when they don’t leave a message.

Daichi finds himself standing in the bedroom, which seems even louder when it’s actually quiet. His gaze, of course, finds itself drifting towards the pile of books in the corner, mostly notebooks and almanacs, except the one on top.

He picks it up and wipes off a layer of dust from its gilded cover, ignoring how out of place the ornate tome looks among the remains of his past studies.

Opening it, he examines what should have been a blank page. **4/7.** He wonders if it’s a date or something else; the number of books perhaps? Did Suga get one? Or Tanaka?

He reads through the first few chapters, letting himself become enthralled with Shouyou’s beginnings. That moment when he’d first met Nekoma’s setter. The second-hand guilt from Suga’s admissions make his cheeks heat up, realizing, not for the first time, that he’d taken the other boy for granted for so long.

He stops reading before Shouyou plays his first game as a team, before he gets into his first big fight with Kageyama, before everything in Shouyou’s life seems to crumble into ash.

The book cuddles into his chest, sharp leather carrying almost the same heat as a human person as he lies down, returning to unconsciousness once more.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a review. :)


	5. Kozume Kenma: Part One

Kozume Kenma: Part One

He’d been staring at the wall when the phone began ringing. Sighing with resignation, he tore his gaze away from the wall and towards the source of interruption. His phone was still on the charger from where he’d plugged it in and hadn’t reached for it since. Instead of answering, or even unplugging the device, he leaned over the nightstand and gazed at the illuminated screen.

The dread was instant.

As was the guilt.

And the longing.

So caught up in this sudden explosion of emotion, as that was the only way to describe it after feeling nothing for so long, he couldn’t find it in himself to answer the phone. Instead, his unseeing gaze settled on the vibrating device, not even registering the sound anymore, and watched as it danced around, begging to be answered. When he finally came to his senses, reaching his trembling hands down to answer the damn thing, the ringing had ceased; and he was cast back into silence.

Glancing at the phone, now back to its empty state, with only his reflection imprinted on the screen, he sighed once more.

 _If it was important, they’d call twice._ He rationalized with finality before turning back to the wall.

He continued to stare, eyes sharpening to catch every minute detail, anything he could have possibly missed. He’d been going over the thing for years, adding to it with the vigor of a man possessed. Which, he supposed in his free time one afternoon, years ago now, that he was.

He was possessed by Shouyou.

After all these years.

Especially after all these years.

Kenma reached forward, lifted a piece of the wall with careful fingers and stared some more.

_Hinata Shouyou – 16_

_Brutally murdered in the woods near his home._

_…_

He let the paper fall down until it was slack against the wall once more, and reached for another.

This one much more recent.

_OIKAWA TORU_

_VOLLEYBALL’S GREATEST_

He hated that man, the one who’d taken Shouyou away from him.

Another, forced his fingers to continue moving.

_Hinata Shouyou isn’t sure what draws him in…_

Their first meeting, page one of an epic cut short, a story unfinished.

The ending was there too, though the book didn’t cover anything like his memories did.

He’d caused Shouyou to die.

 _It’s not too late, though._ He reminded himself, though it was getting more and more troublesome to actually believe himself. To believe the voice in his head that sounded like _him._

Another, not even a month old.

_Teen Brutally Murdered_

He almost hadn’t caught this one, having to snatch the last copy out of the hands of some idiot. He needed it more. The gleaming metal around his neck made the guy think likewise.

The Modus Operandi was the same, the method of murder. The same as that night. What little he’d seen of it, what he’d never forget but couldn’t witness. He hadn’t been there for Shouyou, and he wasn’t there for these other kids as they were stabbed, castrated, raped, and finally, after bleeding out, marked with two characters.

_G K_

The killer was a sadist through and through. Though, he knew that already. Had known it for years; even months before the first victim had appeared.

Kenma grit his teeth together, letting his eyes scoot down to the photos of the boy in the newspaper. The symbols, the signature winked at him. _Chase me, chase me!_ They screamed. Kenma chased, and he chased, and picked up every clue he could find, regardless of its legality and his oath to said legality. He was going to take down Oikawa Toru.

Unfortunately, that was becoming more and more difficult the longer he waited. Oikawa was a superstar in Japan, practically an idol to every female past the age of fifteen. Even if he managed to nail Oikawa on the crimes, the dick had not only the entire female population protecting him, but a string of lawyers guarding his every action. Effectively, Oikawa was untouchable.

Even with the book; especially with the book. It was practically bait in and of itself.

He glanced towards the nightstand again, stretched his arm and pulled said novel into his hands. There had been no packaging, no stickiness to indicate any adhesives. Meaning it was hand delivered to his home. There was no publishing company and no author’s note. On the back, it gave no indication of what the story was about. A style used by older book publications, much older than himself or the book. Which could mean a few things:

The book had come from the distant past, and had only fallen into his possession after the events within had unfolded.

An impossible scenario.

Or, it had been published at discount with a very old retailer. Much more likely.

Unfortunately, aside from these few things. He knew very little about how books were published.

He was, however, certain of one thing.

Kenma wasn’t the only one to receive one of these books.

Another thing he’d almost missed.

The very first page, one that should have been blank, held, perhaps, the biggest clue he had so far.

**1/7**

It hadn’t been made during printing, and had bleed enough to make only one analysis.

It didn’t signify a date, of that he was certain.

Whoever had written this book had sent it to six others. Maybe it meant something, maybe it didn’t, but he wasn’t going to chance something that would help him with Oikawa, or someone, maybe six someones, that would help him.

He would find these people.

But first, he needed to find out about the book itself.

Its origins, specifically.

He’d head to the library, then.

After work, which was nothing more than sitting at his desk, glaring at reports in a vain attempt to make them shorter, easier to read, or fill themselves out. Eight hours later he was done, and exited the Tokyo Police Station with his briefcase and what was left of his patience.

 Or, more aptly put, just his briefcase.

He wasn’t sure where to start, but found himself beckoned to the front desk by a smiling patron. She bowed to him when he approached. He didn’t bother returning the gesture, though it didn’t seem to faze her.

“Can I help you with something, officer?” She questioned softly, almost to the point where he had to lean in just to hear her.

Kenma rolled his lips, unsure how, exactly, to proceed. Nobody had touched the book outside of him, except for his mother, but that had been years ago.

“Can you find the… origin of a book without an author?” He finally asked.

The librarian paused, turning still as a statue for a long moment, “It might be difficult, depending. Do you remember what it was about or some of the text in it?”

His hand hesitated over the clasp on his briefcase before finally flipping it open. The weight was solid in his hand, the leather well-worn. It was irritating to view that book with someone else’s fingers clasped around it.

The librarian propped open the book and leaned it against the computer screen behind the counter and began typing.

“No match found…” She responded after a long moment, filled with clicking and the turning of pages. “That’s very odd, it doesn’t look old… but there’s no publisher, or date, or author… Is this, if you don’t mind me asking, about a case, officer?”

He hesitates, before nodding, “Yes.”

She nods in return, “I apologize, but the database isn’t showing another similar to this…” He nods again.

Clearly, whoever wrote it wouldn’t want to be found by simply typing it in.

Instead of leaving, he set his briefcase down at a cubical and began weaving through the aisles of the library, through the arts and into the reference sections.

There were countless books on book printing, calligraphy, inlaying, and the process of writing. This would take forever, even when he knew what he was looking for.

He picked out a few and let them tower over him as he began skimming through them.

Somehow, he doubted that learning about the origins of gold inlays or hardcover books would actually help him solve the case.

Knowing who did it made it all the more frustrating.

He would find _GK._

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a review. :)


	6. Kageyama Tobio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic chapter. Find "Memory" to skip all the gross stuff that Kageyama does.

Kageyama Tobio

Hinata is an idiot.

Hinata will always be an idiot.

That was the truth of the world. At least to him, that was the truth. Now nobody would ever know if it would remain to be the truth, but Tobio had a feeling- one like an itch where he can't manage to bend his arm far enough to reach it- that, regardless of how the world seemed to revolve around Hinata, it would remain a universal constant. Not dissimilar to how volleyball was the best sport on the planet; or how it couldn't be played by only one person.

It required six.

Tobio was only one person.

Fortunately, someone was on his side of the court when everyone in his life decided to step off of it.

Oikawa.

After Oikawa, more and more people seemed to stampede over themselves in attempt to gain his favor.

That's how he managed to get into Tokyo University. That's how he managed to be avoid warming the bench during his first season. That's how he managed to join the international team.

Tobio was close to his goal. He was still a rookie, but with Oikawa pulling their strings like he was, there was a chance he'd make it to the Olympics.

Both of them would; Iwaizumi too.

Hinata would remain in Miyagi, a few meters under the ground and still, always, an idiot.

Tobio wanted to hate him, but more than that, he wanted to forget. Hinata was nothing.  _Nothing._ Yet his senpai spotted something in Hinata that he didn't find in Tobio; he couldn't name that something, but that didn't stop him from trying.

 _"Please."_  A voice croaked from beneath him, somehow still speaking despite everything Tobio had been doing to stop exactly that.

He tightened his grip, could no feel the callouses on his fingers start to vibrate against the squirming, pulsing skin. Heisuke's neck was sweating, but so were his hands.

"T-Tobio..." Heisuke cried out, clawing limply at the grip around his neck. Tobio could barely feel the pain, no more than he could feel the tension in his hands and fingers as he continued to choke the life out of the man under him.

Heisuke was like Hinata, an idiot. Had the same bright hair color- until Hinata had dyed his hair like an idiot. The same round eyes, though Heisuke's were a different color entirely; though they were now filling with red as his blood vessels started swelling and popping. The white of his eyes turning an almost interesting shade of red. He was crying though, like an idiot. He'd seen Hinata cry a dozen times and hated it more and more when anyone else did it.

Tobio released the grip on Heisuke's neck, and the man went limp onto the floor below them, falling over and bending over himself. He stood over the man, studying him; looking for something that Oikawa knew was there.

 _Nothing._ It was always nothing.

Heisuke gasped into consciousness minutes later, and tried to scramble towards the door of their hotel room. Something in him prevented him from climbing to his feet, though, and Tobio had plenty of time to gather the redhead in his arms and carry him back to the center of the luxury suite they were sharing for the weekend.

He couldn't do it here.

Tobio grabbed at Heisuke's hair, threading his fingers through the sweaty, damp locks. Played with the ginger ends until they curled under his fingers.

"Tobio?" Heisuke called, once again distracting him.

His eyes were still bloodshot, but Tobio was more interested in the dark purple ring of bruises that were forming under Heisuke's chin.

"Why are you doing this?"

Tobio didn't answer. He used his tongue, instead, to curl around the damage he'd caused. Heisuke's neck tastes like sweat and musk; just like the others before him. Nothing special, nothing extraordinary, but Tobio continued to taste him. He could feel Heisuke's pulse, weak but still hammering away, under his teeth when he began biting at him. The damage was minor, but it was more about the fear that he could hear in the redhead's voice.

This was his favorite part. More than the charming, the dating and everything after.

For the next few hours, Tobio took what he wanted from Heisuke as the man gasped under him, still crying and begging for release.

He promised not to say anything. They all said the same thing.

Tobio never found out if they wouldn't.

He pulled his boyfriend away from the hotel. Tobio had to all but carry him towards his car as the man was too short for him to put a shoulder under his.

Tobio hated short people. With a few exceptions, of course.

Liberos mostly.

Nobody questioned where he was going in the middle of the night, and the bust streets acted as a more than sufficient cover as he tugged a half-conscious man out of the backseat of his car and into the nearest park.

Heisuke screamed when Tobio pulled out a knife. At first it was a hoarse gasp, but then it exploded around them, sending birds flying in all directions away from them. Kageyama shoved his shoe in the guy's mouth. And when Heisuke tried to push it out with his tongue, he shoved it in deeper.

Tobio did everything that had happened to Hinata that night, right down to the letters carved into his still bleeding chest.

He relived a memory that wasn't his.

Still, he found nothing in Heisuke- or Hinata- that he didn't already know.

Collecting Heisuke's severed parts in a jar, Tobio quickly wiped the man down of all traces of another being, disinfecting his skin until his own started buzzing in irritation.

He left Heisuke's corpse there, still spurting blood into the grass around him. Tobio put the jar under the driver's seat and returned home.

Three days past.

No mentions of volleyball, no mentions of his own name.

He'd done it again; gotten away with recreating something he didn't understand.

Oikawa still didn't contact him, aloof in a way that really pissed him off. The man all but guided his hand, but refused to speak to him.

When a week passed, he finally lashed out, toppling his bedroom over until all the furniture was upside down.

The unmarked book slid under the turned over desk and Tobio waited a long time before reaching under it and picking it up.

Someone had written about Hinata's life. Every thought he'd had since meeting that other setter, every game he'd played, every stupid idiot that idiot made friends with. It also spoke of Oikawa, gave glimpses of the man that Tobio had never seen, and of himself.

Whoever wrote it was an idiot.

 **5/7**  The inside cover read, like it always did.

Tobio threw the book across the room, venting out the last of his frustrations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late updates.   
> I hope you'll still read to the end of this story, regardless of how long it takes.


	7. Oikawa Toru

Oikawa Toru

Toru adjusts his tie one last time, aligning the amber colored material until it falls perfectly between the margins of his jacket. The action takes a moment, no more than a few seconds, but the majority of his concentration. What's left of it is pinned on the guy waving him forward like someone who's sole purpose in life is to board emergency rafts. The plastic headset dangling from his over-sized head does nothing to fight the annoyed and panicked expression that's harboring his entire face, nor does it distract him from noticing the massive pit stains that are starting to converge into a single continent on the guy's dark button-up shirt. The entire interaction, including adjusting his tie, takes less than ten seconds, and by the look of it, if he takes any longer getting on stage the guy is going to throw a fit.

He's tempted to tie his shoes.

"Oikawa-san!" The guy says, sweat dribbles over his lip, possibly the most disgusting thing he's ever seen.

Toru smiles as charmingly as he can, "Ah! My apologies." He whispers loudly, a secret between the two of them.

The stage handler falters, then smiles back with a disgusting expression.

Toru wonders, however briefly, while he's escorted past the nearly blinding lights and onto the stage, how people could be so surreal; truly incomprehensible creatures, really. Nothing about them made a lick of sense, yet he was able to read them as easily as he might read a book from grade school. The bold print of expression told him everything he wanted to know, and a lot more that he didn't.

A roar of clapping interrupts his thoughts from the stage-hand. That comes as more of a surprise than it should be, he thinks after he startles from its intensity. Toru re-calibrates his shock and offers another, sweeter smile into a crowd he can't see, their faces are under a cowl of shadow while he's cast into the light by several spotlights that follow his trek towards the center of the stage.

It's exactly as it should be.

Soaking up the praise, he lingers for a moment before sitting down across from the over-dressed host and tries not to stare at the make-up that's currently chipping off of his face like cheap paint.

"Good morning, Oikawa-san!" He cheers with a bright white smile. Toru can't, for the life of him, remember his name.

"Good morning!" He chirps back, trying to match his energy. His eyebrow twitches despite himself, but he hides with a small bow as he tacks on, "Thank you so much for having me."

"Of course! Of course! Oikawa-san, you're practically a celebrity now, and so young too! Tell me, do you feel nervous at all being the youngest starter for Japan's national team?" The man chuckles, thrusting a hand through his sweaty, styled-back hair.

 _Practically..._ Toru echoes sourly, but not bothering to look offended in the slightest, though smiling is more of an effort than it had been ten seconds ago.

"I don't feel pressure at all." He answers honestly; he's not nervous at all in that regard, "It was only a matter of time before someone noticed me, I'm just happy it happened so soon!" He laughs too, soaking in the audience's awed reaction.

"You're so confident, Oikawa-san!" Another laugh. It grates on his ears, if he's being totally honest. "Since we have you here today, would you mind sharing something- just between us, of course!" The host winks, one dark, wrinkled eye squishing in on itself and dragging half of his face with it.

"W-what sort of something?" He asks, faking embarrassment and surprise.

"Hm..." The guy hums into the microphone taped on the collar of his shirt. His voice echoes across the entire audience and Toru is genuinely surprised that it didn't cause an uprising of angered fans demanding a refund for having to sit through this torture.

"How about something personal!" He says with a snap, as if he'd just come up with the idea. He leans towards him and Toru is tempted to lean away; tempted, but not allowed. "How about it, Oikawa-san?"

When the man smiles, Toru suddenly recalls the guy's name. Takashi. Plain; just like him. He's surprised he'd let it slip his mind.

"U-uhm." He stutters perfectly. Shy really isn't his thing, but being too straight-forward never did him any favors out of high school. "What do you w-want to know, Takashi-san?"

"Do you have someone- a girlfriend, perhaps, Oikawa-san?" Another fake whisper that echoes across the stage he's trapped in.

The audience screams at the question, a pitch so high he winces. Toru does his best to hide in an embarrassed cough, but he's not totally confident that the camera hadn't seen whatever flashed across his face between one second and the next.

"Ah, no" He lies.  _Yes!_ Technically, Shouyou wasn't a girl, but he might as well be, as far as Toru is concerned.

"That's disappointing." Takashi sighs exaggeratedly, "But! You're still young. I'm sure there's a couple girls in the audience waiting to jump into your arms right now."

As the words echo across the studio, causing an uproar of high-pitched screaming, they hit him like a truck, followed by a train, both of which explode on impact. Toru's smile fades.

_S_ _tupid, stupid fucking brat..._

"Maybe one day." He answers more cryptically than intended; none of them had a chance with him because none of them could replace what he had lost.

"That aside, let's talk about your debut to professional scene. Oikawa-san, what would you say is the most important thing for someone that looks up to you and your teammates to learn on their way to the top." Takashi questions, somehow managing to shift through a dozen exaggerated facial expressions before the question finally slips out.

Toru taps his chin in thought before replying, "My fans and teammates are probably tired of hearing me say this, but my biggest piece of advice is: if you're going to hit it, hit it hard." A couple of screams accompany his words, "If you want something, you should chase after it with everything that you have or you'll never-"

Takashi looks concerned for all of three seconds. "Never?" He prompts.

Shaking his head, Toru continues with a small, embarrassed laugh, "Never reach your goal. Never bust through the walls keeping you locked in. I'm sure you know what that feels like, don't you, Takashi-san?"

Flakes of make-up flutter to the ground between them like winter leaves as Takashi responds to his jab. Toru would be lying if he said he wasn't just a tad satisfied by the way that host gapes like a fish at his statement. That satisfaction doesn't drown out any of the disgust he has for the man; or people like him for that matter. There were worms writhing underneath his toes looking for their next meal, their brains infinitesimally small with wasted potential atrophying off of them with a stench of hair oil and cheap cologne. Compared to him, they were less than nothing, flesh that had someone amalgamated in front of him and demanded his time, that tried to tug on his strings that he didn't have. They were the puppets after all. None of them mattered; not anymore, at least.

"N-next question, then!" Takashi says excitedly, tugging out a stack of cards from the pocket of his ill-fitting jacket, "This question comes from a member of the audience. Oikawa-sama, what would you say is your favorite childhood memory?"

"My favorite childhood memory?" Toru echoes, "Probably when I first joined my volleyball team in middle school, or when I met my best friend, Iwa-chan, or maybe when my nephew was born..."

The audience cooed, as if on cue.

"Are you referring to Iwaizumi Hajime-san from the university you were scouted from?"

"The very same."

It felt uncomfortable to conceal the truth, though, but knew it would be stupid to otherwise. Technically, those were some of the most memorable instances of his childhood, but he'd hardly consider them his favorites, let alone his most sacred. If he was being honest- despite everything- meeting Hinata Shouyou would be his favorite memory from his childhood, though that was decidedly more of an adult memory than a childhood one. It still held a lot of value to him in spite of everything.

He'd been surprised, of course, when another volleyball team sprung up from the dirt like a spring flower. Not that he hadn't heard of Karasuno before, they were fairly infamous around Miyagi, after all, he was just surprised, mildly so, that they'd dragged enough players in to form a team. There were, much like a new bud, and to nobody's surprise, surprisingly fragile. Even the rock that the crows had formed around, their captain at the time, was weathered down from the waterfalls of life. They would not, and could not, serve as a challenge to everything that Toru had worked for; it was impossible.

Until it wasn't.

Hinata Shouyou, along with his estranged underclassman, Tobio-chan, managed to surprise him. The windows that people were made out of, through which he could see through with devastating, and sometimes cruel, clarity had shocked him. Shouyou might have been a window, but he was a glass cage with a murder lurking inside, slapping against his transparent outsides. He was, unfortunately, fascinating. Captivating, and nothing short of potential greatness.

Toru wanted him like he'd never wanted anything before. It Shouyou had asked him to give up his passion, his life, he might have done it. He just wasn't sure how to broach such a subject with someone who may as well been the sun above his head while Toru was stomping on worms in the garden. His first mistake was approaching like Shouyou was his enemy, and the second was everything that had come out of his mouth afterwards. The sharp, underhanded comments frazzled whatever was locked inside of Shouyou, Toru could see that more clearly than he could see the fear that built up on the man's face. He had performed a social taboo with the ease at which Shouyou smiled, that, if nothing else, would make them compatible; perfect together, really. He just knew it, deep in his bones like aching muscles. He took the first step, then the next, and the next. He wanted to be everything to Hinata, and for Hinata to be everything for him. He wouldn't settle for anything less. With inspiration and dedication, everything should be possible, including love, even for him.

Shouyou might have felt the same way, at least in the beginning. He knows that some part of his heart was dedicated to him, something holding him back from leaping into Kozume's arms like a wounded puppy. What he didn't know was if they were chains of fear or something more genuine. It could be, for all he knew, a strange combination of both, that Shouyou was scared of his intensity, of the way he couldn't help but swoon when the shorter was on his mind.

He hoped that Shouyou felt the same; nothing would bring him more joy than to have harvested that from him.

"Another audience member question," Takashi continues, flipping through the cards in his hands, "Oikawa-sama, who's your biggest inspiration?"

"My teammates, of course!" He assures with a laugh.

_Shouyou._

It's true that the ginger-haired boy from his youth didn't really influence him to travel the path that he'd carved for himself, but to deny that Hinata didn't help form an intrinsic part of him would also be denying the truth. Shouyou, if anything, had looked up to him as a rival, as someone to defeat; a wall that he needed to break through to advance towards his goal. Toru, who prided himself on his resilience, found that his inability to break down in those instances with Hinata were something that weighed on him like nothing else. If he hadn't tightened his grip on control of the situation, he and Hinata would be together right now. Hinata was like a snowball in that aspect, he could only be molded together so tightly before he shattered into icy puddles that left his hands stained in blood. Then again, Shouyou's jump had proved him wrong to some extent. He had been terrified of Nekoma's captain after their altercations; and rightly so, in Toru's opinion. With all of that, Shouyou didn't have a reason to stand in the way of his revenge.

Yet he did.

Shouyou died while Toru was defending him. It was a cruel irony, one that nobody, not even Toru, could laugh at. Hinata protected someone who had brought him harm, merely because he was a friend of a friend. He really was an idiot.

"Anyone else?" Takashi bleats, as if displeased with his superficial answer.

"My coaches, of course. And my mother." Oikawa provides kindly.

"Of course!" Takashi concedes, flicking through his questions once more, "Oikawa-sama, what do you do when you aren't practicing volleyball? Ah, I've been curious about this too, Oikawa-san. The public rarely sees you outside of the gym. You're not hiding a secret girlfriend, are you, Oikawa-san?"

Takashi's smile makes him physically ill to witness, but Toru feels like he's been punched in the gut when that pearly white gleam is aimed directly at him.

 _Vulture..._ He thinks, annoyed, but with a smile of his own.

"Ah well... Like I said before, I don't have a girlfriend at the moment. As for what I do outside of practice... I suppose I do a lot of what everyone else does, I suppose. I go see movies, pray at shrines, and visit my adorable nephew on long weekends."

It was mostly the truth, not that lying bore a particular weight on his conscious, but weaving a cohesive story was better than leaving it all up to speculation; he might need the evidence one day.

Outside of practice, he moped around his apartment, half miserable and half angry. The fatigue of constant exercise barely burned a hole in the bottom of the bag of his emotions anymore; there was no escape from Shouyou's influence. He refused to feel guilty, though. It was something he would not allow. His mistake was not something that would prevent him from living without his other half, even if he hated every second of it.

In all honesty, he can't remember the last time he'd watched a movie all the way through, anyway. He'd have to fix that.

Seeing his Takeru on long weekends wasn't a complete lie, either. It just wasn't the main reason he took the train all the way back to Miyagi. As much as it would spurn him in the afterlife, he went to see Shouyou in the forest beyond the stone wall. Past the dead leaves, after spending less than an hour with his nephew, he'd stumble through the place of his biggest error and wallow in it. In that place, he could still feel Shouyou around him. In the perfectly still lake, he saw shadows of the man beyond his grasp, the murder hidden behind a clear cage. In the small marker that stood short and strong, just like Hinata had, in front of that very lake, he'd sit for hours and talk to his missing love, leaving behind flowers that reminded Toru of Hinata's hair, or his attitude, or anything about him. Sometimes he left behind the meat buns that Shouyou had loved so much, sometimes he just left behind their shared memories. It felt more real to be there in person than to read about it the mystery book he'd received, even if it was more incriminating. He needed to see Shouyou, not just read about him.

"I think that's all the time for questions we have for today..." Takashi admits with a pout.

"Aww..." Toru sympathizes as best as he can.

"Thank you so much for being on with us, Oikawa-san. All of us look forward to what you'll achieve next!"

"Thank you very much." Toru responds easily, taking to his feet. He adjusts the orange-colored tie hanging down the front of his shirt once again, and walks off of the stage.


End file.
